


Coincidence

by days4daisy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Enemies, Extra Treat, Hunter and Hunted, M/M, Mistaken Identity, One Night Stands, Pre-Original Trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8312494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: A prize like Solo is sweeter with a chase.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musamihi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/gifts).



Boba Fett is too good for coincidence. 

A job brought him to Galica. Small time by Boba's standards. His query surprised the job's lead Balfo. "Price is set, Fett." Yellow, slit-eyes narrowed. "Factories don't bring in what they used to. Not with the new sanctions, you understand."

Hunters far below Boba's prestige laughed off Balfo's offer. A cheap job; rogue mechanic robbed Balfo's shop and ran. He did not run far, one system over on an outer moon called Terrelict. Boba knew this when he nodded. "Fine," he said.

Amateur. A time waster.

Boba sits at Lesta-Que's counter, a bar in what used to be "downtown." Back when the factories in this region still brought in their fair share. Before the latest round of Imperial crackdowns. It's the same everywhere. His trademark visored helmet and armor are absent tonight; a rare night's reprieve in his own skin.

Lesta-Que is a small, shaded den - black plank wood and metal siding. Lights flash through finger-width panels, like sitting under a hangar as cruisers jump overhead. The captain of the Millennium Falcon sits in a booth against the far wall. Across from him, the Wookiee Chewbacca. One in a million odds.

Han Solo and his first mate exchange words over the pulse of the crowd. A diverse assembly, species whose origin even Boba cannot determine by sight alone. Some cackle, others dance, bodies of all shapes and textures in motion.

There are over one dozen listings on record for Solo. The lower bounties don't interest Boba. A small prize is reasonable for an honest recoup like Balfo's. But chump change for the likes of Solo is irresponsible. Boba loathes cheap traders; they deserve to be duped by the smugglers they swindle.

There are larger offers in play too, more tempting. Still, Boba hesitates. There is one bounty yet to be released. The one he is most interested in.

Jabba's threats are too new, half-hearted warnings over unreliable comm systems. The Hutt has always been fond of Solo. Even now, he would prefer his prized smuggler return with his trademark grin and payment owed. Water under the bridge, business as usual.

It won't happen. The hit will come soon, and Boba will collect. Tonight is proof.

Chewbacca shakes his massive head and ventures into the crowd. Even over the bar's heartbeat, Boba hears Solo laugh. A familiar sound that tickled the walls of Jabba's palace in days past. Lounging in the Hutt's throne room, admirers tucked under his arms. 

Then, always, a glance at Boba. A size-up. And a smirk.

***

An hour passes. Chewbacca does not return. He, too, will draw a decent sum when the time is right. But the Wookiee is secondary to the holder of its life debt tonight.

Solo seems more than happy to indulge in his own company. A menagerie of glasses gleam on his gray-slate table. Solo's eyes comb the crowd, disguised as the wanderings of a bored barman. Passers gauge him in return; some with interest, others with malice. None engage though, and Solo ignores them.

Boba orders an Alderaan Whiskey and rounds the bar to its short side. He takes an empty bar stool a few feet from his prey.

Boba glances over his shoulder. Solo returns his look curiously. Then, his attention strays.

An argument has flared on the other end of the bar. A Trandoshan and a tall Duro shout in disparate languages. The Duro lunges. The Trandoshan headbutts, sea-green skin to reptilian scale. The Duro's face explodes in a geyser of blood.

A few snickers reward the victor. The Duro curses, a muted response given the amount of blood drawn. Yawns resound from the prettier of Galica's clientele.

Boba feels Solo before he hears him. "Bout time we got some action." Solo leans on the bar next to him, empty mug on the counter.

"Depends on the action you want," Boba replies.

"Alderaan," Solo observes, nodding at the glass between Boba's fingers.

"Good eye." Boba faces him. A taste, and a test. "Or should I say 'nose'?"

"Eye," Solo says. "Saw you order." His gaze lowers pointedly, sweeping Boba's mouth. A quick grin, before Solo hails the bartender. Their cloaked host emerges, black skin cracked with red. "I'll have what he's having." Solo nods at Boba.

"On me," Boba adds; an offer which, of course, Solo does not refuse. But he does shift closer, hand flat on the bar top. Solo waits; Boba does nothing.

The drink is delivered. "Thanks, pal," Solo says with a tip of his tumbler. "You enjoy yourself now."

"I'm sure I will,. Boba's eyes trail Solo back to the booth. Solo's legs splay as he sits. He never looks at Boba, but his half-grin grows to full. His head tips back to the booth frame. Exposed. An invitation.

Boba does not accept. A prize like Solo is sweeter with a chase.

***

Galica's darkness is sliced by the occasional overhead beam. Another hour passes. 

Solo's foot is braced on the opposite end of his booth. His glass of Alderaan Whiskey is still half-full. He is nowhere near drunk but plays an admirable charade. A liar so smooth, even Jabba buys most of his nonsense. Solo is a cheat and a crook, but he's easy to like. Easy to want.

Boba takes what remains of his drink to the other side of Solo's booth. He feels Solo watching, a slow slide of eyes as Boba seats himself. Solo does not move the foot braced against the bench. His ankle shifts against Boba's leg. 

"Your furry friend abandoned you," Boba notes.

Solo's teeth are a wet outline in the shadows. "I stay outta the Wookiee's business," he breezes. "The Wookiee stays outta mine."

"What business is that?"

Solo's foot nudges his calf. "My own," he says.

Forward and passive. It's a nice game, one Boba likes playing himself. When he hunts, he dances - a lead, a step back - circled until the final trap. 

"You're bored," Boba observes.

"This place's got a reputation. Never a dull moment, they said." Solo snorts. "What'd we get? One bloody nose and a few tongue-locks?"

"Some might say that's a good night on Galica," Boba points out.

"Oh yeah? What do you call it?"

"Dull," Boba replies. Though, for him, it's been anything but.

Solo barks a laugh. "Ah well. That's life, I guess."

Solo's hand hovers over the blaster on his waist. Boba's does the same; Solo is too good to miss it. They eye each other. Waiting; daring. Solo's boot lingers, heavy, against Boba's leg.

Boba breaks their staredown with a saluted glass. "Well." He swallows the rest of his whiskey. "To more action next time." He rises from the table.

It's a gamble. 

Boba shows himself out into the Galica night. The streets are empty. Lights off. Not echoes of passers or insect chirps. The perfect place for a mechanic to swindle his too-trusting master. Or for a bigger hit, if Boba were so inclined.

Again, he's tempted. The urge passes with a shrug.

His hideaway is not far, down a narrow, dusted road and around a corner to the left. It's a small boarding house, much quieter now than when Boba arrived a few days ago. The haunt is owned by an elder lady named Reesla. A squat, withered figure, blinking snake eyes when he arrived. She nodded quietly at Boba's request for discretion in all matters. Given her advanced age, it's a promise she's known how to keep.

"Hey, stranger." From behind. "Never thanked you for that drink." 

There are no footsteps down the vacant alley. No shadows on the street. But Boba expects the voice at his ear, like he expects the hands that turn him. He is ready for the gate to rattle against his back, and for the mouth that descends on his. Damp with Alderaan Whiskey, honey sweet. Hands dive under Boba's shirt, and over the holster around his waist. They trace the buckle like a child learning to write. 

Solo squints at the boarding house behind him. "You got a room in this dump?"

Boba unlatches the door. Solo follows.

The room is bare bones but cleaner than many of Boba's usual haunts. It has a bed and sheets cleaned within the past week. A small wood-framed window and a desk made of old sheet metal. A quaint place, unbecoming of its more seedy surroundings. 

Solo could not care less about quaintness. He grabs Boba from the doorway and pulls him inside. Solo's fingers tangle in his hair; the other hand tangles in his belt. Boba's sink to the front of Solo's pants. Unlatching his belt, unzipping him. Solo's waist rises. Boba feels him breathe. A grunt, and Solo has his shirt unbuttoned. His fingers skim Boba's stomach, through curled hair - "Fuck yes" - and back to tangle at his scalp.

Boba succeeds at the pants, fabric coming loose. Solo shifts up from him. "Hang on," he mutters. "Boots." 

What he means is 'blaster,' a careful unbuckling and piling of clothes over his weapon. Vest. Shirt. Pants. Even socks. In his underwear, Solo turns to find Boba unlacing his own holster. Solo's eyes flick up the length of his barrel. Polished, no scratches.

"You asked about my business," Solo murmurs. "What's yours?"

Boba sets his clothes in a pile. No words, just eyes. Solo falls for it. Walks back to him, mouths meeting. Solo leads, but backwards. Steps that should be going to the bed meet the wall instead. It's a position Boba finds himself envious of. The shoulders he's watched flex under Solo's vests press against the wall, beyond his touch.

He runs his palm down the front of Solo's briefs. Curls over the forming bulge, welcomes the encouraging jump of Solo's body. Interesting, that Solo is willing to accept this position.

Boba has a theory, and he tests it, using his leverage to muscle them to the bed. Its ancient springs yelp at their joined body weight. Boba wrestles his way on top. They lock eyes; Boba's curious, Solo's enraged. Not a second lapses before Solo twists out of his grasp. He's on top quickly, grinning above him.

Boba allows him the victory. A thumb dips under Solo's underwear. 

"You think you're good, don't you?" Solo doesn't sound particularly upset; a lazy rock of his hips. His weight sits heavy on Boba's stomach.

Boba lets Solo feel his erection up against his briefs. "Yeah," Boba tells him. "I'm good."

Solo snorts. "You planning to put that somewhere?" he grumbles.

Boba reveals the tube in the lip of his underwear. He draws himself out, erect and blushed red. Boba only needs one drop stroked base to cockhead. The gel solidifies to a plastic cover.

"Damn," is Solo's assessment.

Boba slides a hand under his briefs. Solo's waist stutters. Boba presses the tip of a finger inside. 

Solo rises from the bed. Pushed too far? No, he returns with a bottle of his own. Something blue with black script.

"Easy," Solo mutters, straddling his waist. "Precious cargo." He has no idea.

Boba accepts the tube and applies the lubricant freely. He does not ask why Solo was carrying it. Solo's weight sits heavy on his thighs, then sprawls across his chest as he takes another kiss. Boba tastes the rim of Solo's lips, skin pink from use. Will the Wookiee mention it in the morning, Boba wonders. If Boba doesn't change his mind about snaring Solo first...

Solo shifts forward. Friction hot and stiff, even through Solo's briefs. Boba streaks oiled fingers under his waistband. Solo jerks forward, an awkward twitch that makes Boba snort. His reaction draws a mumbled, "Screw you," which Boba should point out is the point.

Boba bites his way up Solo's jaw. Covers the smuggler's scoff with his mouth. Solo's knees sandwich his waist, the heaviness of his arousal on Boba's abdomen. His own erection wedges against Solo's underwear. The position forces Solo's legs further apart. He's opened for the index finger Boba nudges to the first knuckle. Solo's reaction bursts out, "shit!" Boba sinks teeth into his bottom lip. 

Solo swallows an open-mouthed breath inches from Boba's lips. His hand fists in Boba's hair. Boba actually laughs, a purr of appreciation as he presses his index finger to the second knuckle. It twists and curls, a gentle stroke. Solo's body spasms forward.

"Gimme that wrapper thing." His voice rasps from his mouth's overuse. It's a good sound on him, and a good look. Face flushed, eyes wild.

Solo shifts off him long enough to shed his underwear. When he returns, Boba's mouth goes to his throat, biting the pulse point when a lubed finger enters him. Halfway down the nail, as Solo's other hand works himself. It's the second motion that keeps Boba's attention, the glide of Solo's hand around his own cock. 

Boba frowns against Solo's skin as the finger fills him further. The sensation isn't unpleasant, but strange. His quarry's touch.

Two fingers press into him; a respectful motion. Loosening the crown and slicking his insides. Boba bobs towards his hand, warming to the sensation. He drags his tongue up Solo's neck, tasting the salt of his sweat and skin. 

Will Jabba string Solo up by this neck, Boba wonders. Let his body dangle like a prized chandelier? Allow the rabble to pick at him until all that's left are the bones?

There is the rancor, of course. But Jabba uses the rancor on the general masses. This death is not creative enough for the likes of Han Solo.

Solo's fingers scissor deeper inside. Boba coats his hand fresh and winds it around Solo's cock. Even through the protective cover, it is hot to the touch and blushed. Oil slicks with a squish between skin and plastic. Solo rocks forward. His balls sit heavy on Boba's thighs.

Maybe Jabba won't kill Solo. Maybe he'll keep him, as he keeps his other slaves. Jabba has an appetite for many species. He favors the female sex, but it would not be the first time Jabba turned his chains and on a man. What a sight that would be. The once-illustrious Han Solo seated in shame against the Hutt's slime-slick belly. Naked and silent, a feast for the eyes and hands of the assembled. A collar laced around his neck. Chains rattling against his chest.

The fingers inside Boba move, angled and firm. Boba drags a heavy thumb around the head of Solo's cock. Solo blows out a breath, covers it with a snicker. "You like that, huh?"

"Do you always need reassurance?" Boba asks.

He gets a flippant "Screw you, pal," before Solo adds a third finger. They scissor and spread. Boba opens his legs to accommodate. His lips rest on Solo's neck, a burst of breath across skin that deserves Jabba's collar. Leather cutting this pretty throat red.

"You good?" Solo asks. Boba inclines his head as he releases Solo's cock. His hands return to the shoulders he's watched flex so many years in those thin shirts and vests. His hands draw lines of oil down Solo's skin, like the blood Jabba and his guards will draw. Will they whip Solo? Will they torture him?

"Not a man of many words, huh?" Solo urges his legs apart, a print of drying lube left on Boba's thigh.

"You have enough for both of us," Boba points out.

Solo grins. "I get that a lot." He takes a moment to look Boba over. It's in a smuggler's nature to memorize, as it is for bounty hunters. Their livelihoods depend on detail. Friend or enemy are slim margins separated by memory.

Solo sits back. "Roll over," he says. Boba doesn't move. Solo's brow furrows. "It'll be easier. Don't you think?"

"No," Boba replies. There is no circumstance on this planet or any other that would convince Boba to give Solo his back. Even with blasters stored out of reach.

"Suit yourself," Solo says. His body settles between Boba's thighs.

The head nudges into him. Solo's hands brace on Boba's stomach, a determined crease between his brows. Pressure becomes penetration. Boba's teeth grit, but he rocks his waist higher. He closes a hand around his own cock and starts to stroke.

Solo's eyes follow the motion as more of his weight presses forward. The pressure inside Boba grows more insistent. He sits up, cock jerked towards Solo's stomach.

His hand drifts between Solo's legs. The crown is nice and loose after Boba's earlier efforts. Solo's hips jump forward with a startled groan. "Don't play nice, do ya?" The question is half-laughed. Solo rocks back on his hand, making it easy for Boba to add a second finger to the first. He thrusts in as Solo shifts forward. Back, as he recedes. It's a rhythm Solo scowls against. Their skin smacks together.

Boba angles his wrist, arching fingers up into him. Solo's body gives, biting back pleasure. Boba's knees strain open, cock sandwiched between their bodies. Solo's breaths burst hot across Boba's chest. He licks his own swollen mouth, turns it a prettier shade of pink.

Boba arches higher. "You want nice?"

"Can it," grit low. Solo rides the line of Boba's jaw to his ear. Head turned, neck exposed to Solo's teeth. A hand laces with Boba's around his shaft. Slick rasping of plastic as joined fingers pump him. Solo's breaths seem to echo in Boba's ear. 

Boba fingers him harder. No warning when a third joins the first two. Spreading him wide, twisting and knuckled. Solo rams forward, shock hissed against his skin. His teeth leave imprints under Boba's ear. Skin mutes his reactions; sweet like defeat.

Disapproving growls fade to sighs as Solo relents. He loosens even more around Boba's fingers. Solo is over lubed and stretched. He tries to make up for it. Increases his tempo, angles his body with greater insistence. It works, at first. Boba's fingers stop, distracted by the pleasure that shoots through his limbs. His hands twitch. His cock jumps. Sweat marks his hairline, matching beads of effort pooling in the small of Solo's back. 

His fingers are like loose wires as he goes back to work. Solo's answer rumbles, muffled, against Boba's chin. 

Boba snatches Solo's lips with his own. They kiss lazily, open-mouthed and hot-breathed. Stuttering on each thrust. A curse, a grunt. Solo grits his teeth, but the moan still comes. Boba kisses his locked mouth, shifts towards the hand linked tight around his cock. Moves his own fingers to match Solo's thrusts. Spreading and slicking, Solo's body struggling to keep up. Muscles fluttering like a pinned butterfly's wings. Trying to ward him off, trying to keep his control.

Boba has him now. Boba has always had him.

He has never heard this groan from Solo before, but he knows it immediately. A shudder rips through him, spasmed relief. Solo's mouth stutters down his chin. For a moment, he's completely still.

Then, the hand around Boba's cock begins to move again. More focused. Boba's body jerks forward when he cums, kept dry by the wrap around his shaft.

Solo rolls to the side. Without his body heat, the room feels cold.

Solo lies on his back for a minute. It's one minute longer than Boba expects. Then, he's up. Solo combs a hand through his hair. The used condom is discarded in the waste chute beside the wash room. Solo isn't inside long; no light, just the sound of running water.

He goes straight for his clothes when he's done. A wince as he bends into his pants and boots. A grumble as he tugs his shirt over his sweat-slick torso. His holster is laced around his waist. His fingers dance over his blaster. 

"Thanks, pal," Solo offers instead. "That was fun."

Boba nods. Without another word, Solo leaves.

***

Solo is in top form at Mos Eisley. He speaks to Jabba in a way few would dare. Finger jabbed in the Hutt's chest, unconcerned by the hunters circled around the Falcon. A casual step on the tail, drawing Jabba's yelp and a glower. Solo is pushing his luck. Jabba is already steamed by the loss of Greedo. Quick on the trigger, but not the most accurate. Boba can't say he'll miss the worm.

The promise of money soothes Jabba's temper. _Han, my boy. You're the best._ Jabba's face lights up. _So for an extra twenty percent-_

"Fifteen, Jabba," Solo balks. "Don't push it."

Fifteen percent on top of the cargo already owed? It won't happen. Boba knows this, as do Jabba and the assembled hunters. But Solo has always been Jabba's soft spot. _Ok, fifteen percent,_ the Hutt agrees. _But if you fail me again, I'll put a price on your head so big you won't be able to go near a civilized system._

"Jabba?" Solo spins, a sardonic smile. "You're a wonderful human being." He ascends the ramp onto the Falcon, Chewbacca follows.

Satisfied for the time being, Jabba hails them to follow. Back to his palace, until the time is right. Boba has a feeling he will not be waiting long.

The others filter behind the slithering tail of the Hutt. Boba takes his time, blaster lifted, scanning the perimeter. No signs of anything amiss. No indications of a greater plot. But there is always something up Solo's sleeve.

Boba glances up the ramp. Solo is watching him, elbow propped on the entrance latch.

"Time's running out," Boba tells him. He can almost taste Solo begging at the end of his blaster.

Solo grins. "Hey, stranger."

He's gone before Boba can respond. The entrance ramp rises into the belly of the Falcon. 

Coincidence? No. Han Solo is too good for coincidence.

*The End*


End file.
